Upon them fall the myrtle and the bay,
E’en in the desert they would find at need
Enchanted palaces along their way.
Though for the morrow’s morn they take no heed,
Yet through their fingers filter golden sands,
And at a generous breast they freely feed.
Kneading a withered breast with famished hands
Their outcast brethren pine, or seek in vain
Some kinder bosom in relentless lands.
And if for them upon the desert plain